Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(17)
She heard Patrick call her name, and the wolf howled in response. She wanted to scream for help but dared not do anything to startle or provoke the vicious beast.
Hearing the sounds of footsteps coming toward them, the wolf growled and his fur bristled. Spit slid in heavy sheets from his mouth as he crouched low to the ground, ready to pounce.
She held her breath, praying that someone arrived—
“Don't move.”
The sound of Patrick Murray's deep, steady voice was the sweetest thing she'd ever heard.
Move? She couldn't even if she wanted to. Her feet seemed to be stuck in a bog. “I w-won't,” she whispered, fear carrying her past caring about her stammer. Patrick tossed a rock in the wolf's direction. Rather than scare him off, however, it seemed only to make him angrier, thinking that Patrick was infringing on his territory. The beast had claimed Elizabeth as his prey and wouldn't let her go without a fight.
Tiring of Patrick's efforts, the wolf attacked without warning, leaping forward and closing the distance to Lizzie in a matter of seconds. She didn't even have time to breathe, let alone get out the scream that strangled in her throat, before two front paws hit her square in the chest and knocked her harshly to the ground, taking the air from her lungs.
For one terrifying second, she felt his suffocating weight on top of her; the horrible stench of his fur and breath enveloped her in a sickening noose. His teeth were so sharp. They were going to hurt….
Suddenly the snarling beast was ripped off her.
Patrick had wrestled the wolf to the ground, one arm wrapped around his neck. The animal's long teeth gleamed in the moonlight as he twisted wildly, gnashing and snarling at his captor. Lizzie knew from his size how strong the wolf must be, but he was no match for the fierce warrior. Patrick's eyes were cold and determined, not a hint of fear in their dark green depths.
She stared in awed wonderment as he subdued the ferocious animal as if he offered no more fight than a rabbit. She'd never seen anything like it—his strength was extraordinary. His arm squeezed around the wolf's neck, the muscle in his arm bulging against the leather of his cotun like a boulder, until the wolf hung limp.
Lizzie swore she saw regret on his face as he tossed the lifeless animal to the side and came quickly to her.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded dumbly as he helped her to her feet. “I—I'm fine.” She struggled to control her stammering tongue. But the strain of what had just happened, added to the horror of the earlier attack by the MacGregors, proved too much. She didn't care. Her carefully wrought composure dissolved. She could barely stand, her legs felt so weak. Her body began to shake uncontrollably, her throat tightened, and hot tears stung her eyes.
He was standing so close to her, all six feet plus inches of masculine strength. So solid and safe. Her valiant protector. It seemed only natural to seek the safe enclosure of his embrace. She ran into his arms, burying her head against the hard wall of his chest. He smelled … wonderful. Warm. Of leather and pine needles and strength. Savoring the distinctly masculine scents, she closed her eyes. Only then did the tears start to fall.
Patrick MacGregor, a man known for his cool authority, for his decisiveness in battle, for his strength and toughness in the most extreme conditions, was at a complete loss. He looked down at the flaxen head of the tiny feminine bundle against his chest and didn't know what to do, having little experience with comforting weeping women. He felt a hard twinge in his chest. A flood of warmth that almost bordered on … contentment. An emotion so foreign to him, he didn't know what to make of it.
After a moment's confusion, he relaxed and acted on instinct, allowing his arms to come around her and snuggle her closer to him.
He figured it was the right thing to do—despite the fact that it seemed only to make her cry harder—when every muscle in her body seemed to heave a sigh of relief and she collapsed limply against him.
He felt a surge of protectiveness. An overwhelming urge to keep her safe. Ironic, given his task.
Still, it pleased him that she'd turned to him so easily. He knew not to read too much into it; he was convenient, nothing more. And she'd been pushed to the end of her rope by the day's events. But it didn't mean he didn't like it.
Holding her like this, it felt … nice.
More than nice. He couldn't help but notice how well they fit together. Her head tucked neatly under his chin, and his arms wrapped perfectly around her. Her hair smelled like lavender, and was so silky soft that he couldn't resist the urge to touch it. He let it slide under his palm as he stroked her head soothingly, his own pulse beginning to slow.
Her weeping did not diminish his opinion of her strength. The lass had been through a lot today; she'd earned the right to her tears. She wasn't the only one reeling from what had nearly happened.
He didn't know how to describe the feeling that had shot through him when he'd heard the wolf howl. His heart had seized for one paralyzing second. If he didn't know better, he would think it had been a flash of panic—laughable under ordinary circumstances.
But these were hardly ordinary circumstances. If anything happened to the lass, he would have only himself to blame. He'd put her in this position. She was his responsibility.
Unlike the attack on her carriage earlier, the wolf had not been planned.
After a few minutes, her sobs began to slow, and he became uncomfortably aware of the effects of holding her so closely. The incredible softness of her br**sts crushed against his chest made his blood fire. He felt the weight come over him. The heavy pull in his groin. The hardening. It had been too long since he'd had a woman, and it had caught up to him—at the wrong time.